P is for Payback
by rittenden
Summary: Short story written for an alphabet challenge on a site that no longer exists. Oneshot.


Originally written for an alphabet challenge on a site that no longer exists. Dedicated to my WOTTSOF, 3rdgal. Many will have already read this - it's okay if you don't review.

This is one of many archived stories I managed to salvage before the old site went down. I will be posting the rest, eventually. If anyone has a copy of my fic somewhere, please PM me. I'm missing a lot of them.

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**P is for Payback**

Special Agent Don Eppes shifted from foot to foot restlessly. He had been standing in the same position for over an hour, waiting for the man to appear. His sources told him this guy could be found in the building opposite at the same time every day – it was just a matter of waiting him out.

Don thought back to the events of the morning. It took a considerable amount of preparation to put this plan in motion. Most importantly, he had had to mislead his team members – something he found very difficult to do. Megan Reeves, Colby Granger and David Sinclair were more than fellow agents. They were like family. He felt badly for tricking them into thinking he was going to interview a witness, but he didn't want them to have to lie about his whereabouts, should anyone ask. This one was entirely his own responsibility. No one else was going to take the blame for him if this operation went sour.

He tensed as he saw his quarry round the corner of the glass and stone building. Stepping back into the shadow of an oak tree, Don watched as the man ducked through the tinted glass double doors into what he knew would be air-conditioned comfort. Loosening his collar in the midday heat, he forced himself to relax. One wrong move now and the suspect would bolt, the opportunity lost.

Half an hour later the man emerged, oblivious as to what was about to unfold. Don followed at a distance, careful to keep plenty of cover between himself and his prey. It took almost fifteen minutes before the man turned in another doorway. Don paused behind a stone pillar, counting to five before he, too, went inside the building. His timing couldn't have been more perfect. He could just see the lone figure rounding the corner at the end of a long hallway. Slowing his pace, Don checked his weapon for the umpteenth time. It wouldn't do to have something as mundane as a mechanical foul-up ruin the takedown of his career. If all went well, they'd be talking about this one around the water cooler for months.

Not that Don was doing this solo for the prestige – he wasn't that vain. No, the point of this exercise wasn't pride. Well, maybe just a little. He wanted to make sure this guy never forgot one simple fact: No one gets the drop on an FBI agent and gets away with it. Don wasn't hurrying now. He knew where to find his man in this building. Predictable, is what this guy was.

Coming to the end of the hallway, Don peered around the corner. The coast was clear. This was a good sign – it meant there wouldn't be any possibility of an innocent bystander getting caught in the crossfire, should this guy decide to retaliate. Don crept soundlessly to the doorway of the room where he knew the perp would be. His back pressed against the wall, weapon held at the ready, Don glanced quickly through the open doorway. Although he couldn't see him, Don knew there was only one way out of the room. There was no chance of escape for him now. Experience had taught the FBI agent that a cornered man could prove dangerous. He stepped cautiously into the room, both hands on the pistol held out in front of him. He checked behind the door, making sure this half of the room was empty before heading toward the row of bookshelves that divided the small space.

He could hear the shuffling of feet and the sound of pages being turned. Taking a deep breath, Don sprang from his concealment.

"What the hell…?" the other man yelled, dropping the book he was holding and reaching for his own weapon. Don drew aim and fired repeatedly, reflex and adrenaline taking control of his actions.

The gun's chamber empty, Don regarded his opponent with a grim smile on his face. "Gotcha," he growled.

Shaking his now sopping-wet curls out of his eyes, Charlie replied, "Don – you are so _dead_."


End file.
